


In the After

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: First and Commander: Namira Lavellan x Cullen Rutherford [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TRESPASSER SPOILERS.</p><p>Namira Lavellan struggles to come to terms with her new life; Inquisition disbanded, her life forever changed, her friends and husband by her side.  It takes time.  </p><p>She reminds herself of that frequently.  <i>It takes time.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ashes to Ashes

Weeks, no, months of worsening pain; it comes home to call now, setting nerves aflame.  Namira tries to ignore it when it comes, tries to keep on, her feet slipping on slick stones in the creekbed.  Somewhere up above birdsong is cheerful, burbling up in the treetops, the sounds so sweet despite the chaos on the ground.

But aside from the signs of battle, the world around her looks so – normal.  It strikes her in the moment between one harsh breath and the next.  Berry bushes, heavy laden here at the end of summer’s reign.  Ferns rich and green at the water’s edge.  The sun bright and warm; on another day, in another life, she might be sunning herself as she read the Keeper’s scrolls, taking careful notes on handmade paper.  She used to like to study in weather like this, though it was always with a hint of anxiety, remembering that she was the First.  Remembering what lay before her, the path she was bound to travel.

She would laugh at how wrong she had been, more than once.  She wishes she could laugh now.  The moment is gone, that sudden deliberation on what might have been torn away when she sees him.

_Solas._

The pain sears, all-consuming, an invasion of raw Fade unraveling her from within.  Namira pants with it, stumbling up to him, shuddering; she can barely focus on Solas, on _Fen’Harel,_ and the words that come from his mouth.

 _Dread Wolf take you_ , she thinks, the old warning verging on the ludicrous now when she remembers the Dread Wolf hating the taste of tea.  The memory intrudes inappropriately, a bit of bizarreness in this fog of confusion and pain she finds herself in.   _By the Dread Wolf!_  How many times had her grandmother cursed him?  How many times did children duck back into their aravels by dark, hoping to avoid his slavering jaws?  She remembers the wolf mandible.  The Dread Wolf had been known to have a cruel sense of humor.

She looks at him, the simple apostate’s facade finally, truly stripped away; he gleams in volcanic aurum and rich wolfskin, brilliant with the sun behind him, power thrumming in every line of him.  She can almost see it shimmering around him, though he stands there quietly, regretfully before her.  He pulses with it, more power than she could ever hope to wield.

She can’t stop thinking about the tea.  Stupid, she knows.  It is an absurd thing to dwell on at this moment, this raw and awful moment.  The Dread Wolf flesh and blood and scowling over a cup of black tea, a perfectly mortal reaction, as if he was a normal person after all.  She almost wants to laugh because what else can she do?  He has been lying the whole time, to her, to Cassandra, to everyone in the Inquisition.  The man she once called her friend stands before her, draped in legend and a terrible history.  She had suspected, the further they had ventured through the eluvians, the beautiful paintings and the scraps of paper all pointing to something terrible.  She had wanted, quite badly, to be wrong.

Namira looks at him, hard.  She knows he isn’t lying any longer, not with that mingled regret and iciness in his eyes.  There are a million questions she wishes to ask him, but only a few come to mind long enough to coalesce into words.  It’s too difficult to think through the pain.  If only the others were here to help her now, and not unconscious from the brutal fight against the Saarebas; they would be able to ask the questions she knows she should, as Solas tells her what he wants to do.  What he _will_ do.  To the world, and to all of them.

Namira bows over her ruined arm, closing her eyes, but she can still see the tendrils of green flaring behind her closed eyelid.  She would never have been here if not for unhappy accident, if not for Solas’ plans going awry….  She lifts her head, tells him defiantly that he’s wrong.  She will _show_ him, Dread Wolf or no, convince him to change his mind.  She’s furious, then, determined to reach for the man behind the legend and make him see his madness, make him understand this world, tea and all, is as real and worthy as any he left behind –

The pain grows, hand to wrist to arm, creeping into chest and mouth and belly.  Her chest struggles to expand.  It’s taking her over, it _is_ her, there will be nothing left of her; if only she could have seen Cullen one last time, if only she could have grown old with him –

Surely she is ended –

And Solas takes her by the hand.

Everything quiets, but for an instant.  She has never held his hand before, not like this.  Her hand feels like fire; his is calloused, cool, surprisingly gentle.

“Solas, please,” Namira whispers.

“I am sorry,” he says, and she thinks he means it, but then again, she has thought that before.  She closes her eyes, and focuses on his hand on hers as the pain roars back again.

He feels like stone against the storm in her bones and flesh, a safe haven.  She has no choice but to trust him, one final time, to hope that their friendship was something true.  She grips his palm as much as her quivering fingers allow, and he whispers his apologies again as the pain shrieks ever louder, the blood rushing in her ears, a fierce white light; and then she knows only darkness.

Dorian is the one who lifts her against him, murmuring soft sadness in her ear.  She comes back slowly, blinking in the bright afternoon sunlight.  It’s a moment before her mind clears enough that she can understand him.  “You brave, foolish woman, I’m so sorry,” he breathes.

Namira raises her head, looks around.  Cassandra and Varric are crouched beside them, their faces pale and grim.  “The Anchor,” she mumbles.  “He – Solas – he’s taken it.”  She has so much to tell them, so much they need to know.

She gulps, trying to remember exactly what happened.  He took the Anchor, and then?  She does not feel the agony of its mark anymore.  There is something _wrong_.  She can tell by the horror in Cassandra’s eyes, in the way Dorian trembles against her.  She lifts her left hand up to her face, her heart stuttering as she looks at blackened, peeling skin.  With her right hand, she touches her left experimentally.

Ash crumbles into her lap, bone-shaped soot falling apart into powder even as she touches what once were fingers.  She does not feel it.  Flesh flakes off, paper-thin.  Skin and muscle, fat and marrow, it’s all gone, ending just above her elbow with the skin there raw and blistered.  The skin there hurts, but far less than the Anchor did.

“Ah,” she manages.  “Well.  How about that.”


	2. Through the Looking-Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namira returns to the Winter Palace, and her husband.

She insists on walking back through the eluvians on her own, but she leans heavily against her staff.  She would have been exhausted just from the battles and the chase, let alone the business with the Anchor.  The staff blade scrapes against the ground, setting her teeth on edge.  She’s never used it as a walking stick before.  

Her left arm dangles at her side.  She does not know what to do with it.  Scraps of leather flutter around it as she moves.

Varric was kind enough to lend his dagger, cutting through the leather straps that had connected the gauntlet of her armor’s left sleeve to the shoulder.  It had been catching against the raw skin on her arm, irritating her despite the partial healing Dorian had been able to grant to her.  They had left the offending gauntlet on the ground; she could not think of a reason to bring it along.  It has only been a few days since this armor was forged.  What a waste.

Namira quivers as she walks.  Part of her recognizes she is in shock, and why shouldn’t she be?  She almost smiles.  The Dread Wolf and the One-Armed Inquisitor.  What a tale it will be!  She bites back a laugh; she can taste the way it will lead to tears if she lets it free.

“I’ll be all right,” she says instead, to no one in particular, to all of them.  Then she winces.  “Oh, no.  I didn’t mean the pun.”

Varric’s the only one who smiles, his broad face creasing.  “Sure you did, kid.  It was a damn good one, too.”  His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, though; too much worry.

“Varric!” Cassandra says reproachfully.  “The Inquisitor is gravely injured and you are making _jokes_ \--”

“Jokes help,” says Varric, stubborn with Cassandra as usual.  “Doodles knows that.”

Namira nods mechanically.  Varric’s nickname for her usually brings a smile to her face, commentary on the sketchbooks she carries and the drawings she trades with Sera.  She only manages a twitch of her lips, thinking of silly things like nicknames and jests.  They do help, a little, chipping away at the numbness surrounding her.  But inside the numbness she feels raw and prickly and hollow all at once, and she knows the jokes can’t dig that deep.

They reach the last eluvian.  It has taken less time than she expected, or perhaps it is that she has noticed so little of her surroundings on the way back.  The pink blossoms on the trees in this in-between place are still so lovely, so strange, even after everything.

Namira stares at this last eluvian, trying to summon the courage to step through it.  Beyond lies the Winter Palace, Cullen, the fate of the Inquisition.  Everything seems too remote.  If she goes through, then this is truly real; this has all truly happened.  The idea is anathema to her, and yet, she does not know what else to do but go through.  She reaches for the eluvian with her left han--

No.  No, that won’t work now.

Namira swallows, leads instead with her right hand, awkwardly tucking her staff beneath her arm, wishing that she could simply reach back with both hands and fix it to the straps on her back like before.  Yet nothing will be like before, will it?

Quicksilver melts before her and she returns to Orlais and the Winter Palace, soldiers ramrod straight around the little room like an honor guard, awaiting the return of their Inquisitor.  She holds her left arm behind her back as far as she can, trying to hide the loss, and by the guards’ faces she can tell she is successful.  There are no dropped jaws, no horrified, pitying gazes.

“Where is Commander Cullen?” Cassandra demands, but before she can finish the question Namira sees him coming round the corner into the chamber housing the eluvian.  She clings to her staff, shaking, and she realizes there is no way that she will not lose herself the moment he touches her.  She can’t, not in front of the troops.

“Please --” she whispers to Dorian, and he understands immediately.   He strides forward, arms raised, voice booming.

“Clear on out, you lot, the Inquisitor must speak to the Commander!”  Varric and Cassandra help him, urging soldiers past and out into the palace grounds.  The room empties around them, Cullen trying to make his way past the others going in the opposite direction.  As Dorian leaves he grabs Cullen by the shoulder and says something into his ear before letting him go past.

They’re alone, just Cullen and Namira and the eluvian, and he rushes to her, flinging his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Namira,” he says, his voice muffled into her hair, and she feels him shaking just as much as she is.

“What -- what did Dorian tell you?”

“That you’re going to make it,” Cullen says, and she thinks he might be near tears.  She pulls away from him, going strangely still.

“He’s right.  But, Cullen,” she says, her voice soft and barely controlled.  “Look at -- please look at me.”

He holds her, his hands on her shoulders, and he looks.  His eyes are red and puffy, his hair mussed, and she realizes they both had thought she would not return.  Well, she’s back; but she never thought to return like this, Anchor gone, taking much with it.

There’s that prickling, hollow feeling again.

She reaches across her chest with the right arm, lifts up the ragged remains of her left sleeve so he can see.  She tries to avoid touching the raw skin, an irrational fear filling her.

His face crumples, and for a moment the knot inside of her comes loose, pulled free by the tears gleaming in his eyes.  He pulls her back to him and this time she lets her own tears flow.  She sobs against her husband, and the world shrinks to his arms around her, the salt in the corners of her mouth, the beat of his heart beneath her cries, and there they stay a long, long time.


	3. The Skin That's Shed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The physical healing begins. The rest will take longer.

* * *

Namira slumps against the comfortable chair in her quarters.  Vivienne kneels next to her, staff at her side, a sleeping draught ready mixed on the bedside table.  Cullen had sent for the other mage right away, after seeing how exhausted Dorian was; he would not be able to spare any further energy for healing today.

Cullen is anxious, long lines of his body hunched and tense in the chair beside Namira.  He fidgets, hands knotting in his lap while Vivienne works.  The Mabari catches the tension, his ears pricked, his eyes searching from his place beside the door as if to ward off their enemies.  No one would dare tell the Inquisitor and the Commander the dog was not welcome indoors.  

Vivienne’s magic is elegant, familiar, whisper-soft over the wounds on the stump of Namira’s arm.  The burning sensation fades, and Namira looks down to see new pink skin formed and stretched.  But no bones, no forearm, wrist, fingers.  There will be no miraculous regrowth here.

“Is that – all that can be done?” Cullen asks stiffly.  Namira does not look at him, unable to bear the sight of the disappointment that must be on his face.

“Magic cannot restore what is no longer there,” Vivienne explains patiently, and Namira’s grateful that Vivienne is the one to give the news instead of herself.  “The Anchor damaged her arm too severely.  Even if Solas –” Her patient voice shifts into cold contempt for an instant.  “Even if _Solas_ had had another way to remove the Anchor, I do not think we would have been able to salvage the arm regardless.  Do you, Inquisitor?”

Namira sighs.  “No.  I could feel it; it was already unraveling before I even got to him.  The Fade was starting to – to tear me apart.”  She shivers, and Cullen reaches for her right hand.  His hand is warm, and even if trembles, it brings far more comfort than earlier today, when Solas took her hand in his.

“Does it feel any better, my dear?” Vivienne asks, her brows lifted ever so slightly in an expression of concern.  It makes Namira feel somehow both awkward and heartened to see Vivienne, normally so stern and composed, wearing empathy in the way her brown eyes soften.

“It does,” she says.  “Thank you, Vivienne.”  She shakes her head, yawning, and pulls her hand away from Cullen’s to rub at her eyes.  “I’m sorry to ask you to go, but I need to rest.  We will stay a few more days – there is still the matter of the negotiations, and I will see you then.”  She laughs, the sound worn out.  “Negotiations sound almost like an afterthought, now.”

“Make sure you drink the spindleweed infusion,” Vivienne says firmly.  “It will aid your sleep.  Maker knows you need the rest, after what you have been through.  Do have Cullen call again if I am needed; I will be here.”  She stands in one smooth, fluid motion, tilting her head slightly.  “There is no need to apologize.  This will not define you, my dear Inquisitor.  You will persevere.”

Namira smiles back, watching the other enchanter go.  As soon as Vivienne is gone, Cullen gets to his feet and locks the door.  He takes a moment to pet the dog, scritching him hard under the chin – more for Cullen’s comfort than the dog – then returns to her, holding out his hand.  

“Come and rest, Namira,” he says, his voice hoarse, his face worn.

“Will you help me?” she asks.  “Get out of these things, I mean.”  She gestures to her armor, uncertain how to peel it off one-handed with all its buckles and snaps.  She gets up, turns around so he can reach things.

“Yes, of course.  Here.”  His hands make short work of her armor, his fingers sure against leather and lazurite, and the layers peel off her, further things she sheds this day.  It’s a relief, as losing her hand was in a way, removing what is alien and other and leaving her just Namira, small, naked, herself.

Namira turns back to face Cullen.  “Thank you,” she says.  She considers, looking at the dark circles beneath his warm eyes.  “You’re exhausted.”  

He attempts to protest, but with a knowing look from her, he admits, “Yes.  Yes, I am.  You’ve found me out.”

“I’m sneaky that way,” says Namira with a lopsided grin.  “Come on.  Get into bed with me.  We can worry about – _this_ –”  She glances at her stump, but looks back to him quickly, a shiver roiling in her stomach.  “ – later.  For now, though, I’m alive.  You’re alive.  And in all of this mess I’ve missed a chance to be with my husband, so get in bed, and hold me.  That’s an order.”

A smile quirks at his lips.   “At your service, my lovely wife.”  

They both know that they’re skating past this new and awful thing between them, that they’ll need to parse it, again and again, in the coming days and weeks.  It is not something to just ignore.  And yet, she’s free of the Anchor’s terrible, agonizing pulse, free to be herself again, free to know that at least for a little while, until they determine how to stop Solas, she has earned a respite with Cullen there beside her.  

She drinks the draught of spindleweed, its milky taste sweet and soothing, and feels her exhaustion triple by the end of the drink.  Creators, but this is a potent mixture.  Cullen, for his part, is out of his armor before she’s finished the drink.

She sets down the cup in time for him to pull her into bed with him, and oh, he’s warm, he’s solid, he’s here.  He holds her tightly, pressing soft kisses to the top of her head, her cheeks, the pointed tips of her ears.  There is an urgency in his actions, not of a rising passion, but of desperation’s ache caught on the exhale, his fear beginning to fade.  She holds him with her right arm, curls up beside him in the way they fit best, and she’s drowsy in the warmth of the blankets and his embrace.

She thinks she hears him speak, just before she falls asleep.  “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers, but before she can tell him she’s still here, she drifts away.


	4. The World Grinds On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namira's work in Orlais is not yet done.

Spindleweed normally creates a dreamless sleep, and indeed, Namira’s dreams do not take her to the Fade; no spirits waiting, some kind and eager, others greedy.  They do not converse with her tonight.  She is left only with mere impressions, fragments that she catches when she rolls over her in her sleep, when Cullen murmurs beside her.  She shifts, and she remembers _Oh no_ ; she curls up closer to her husband’s back – _her husband!_ – and there’s a nagging feeling tugging at her through the dreamless haze, the idea that something unpleasant awaits her as soon as she wakes.

She tries to ignore it, but as sunlight creeps and spills into their overwrought Orlesian chambers, she drifts closer and closer to shore.  At last she opens her eyes, squinting, and remembers fully when the nub of her arm scrapes against the sheets, bringing with it a tender ache.  Nothing compared to what it was, in more ways than she likes.

Namira rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling.  It is patterned in opalescent nonsense, the antithesis of an aravel’s humble roof.  A fierce agony, far worse than the lingering pain in her arm, grips her chest.   _Mamae, what should I do?_ she wonders, but her mother is gone, lost in the sickness that swept through her clan the year before the Breach.  And Clan Lavellan entire is gone too, unless –

Sera’s voice, bright and cheery, rings in her mind.   _Heard something about your clan.  Could look into it, if you like.  Ask the Jennys._

Hope flickers, but Namira stuffs it down.  She can’t bear for that to be crippled, too.

Her mouth twists.  It’s an ugly word to think.  She tries to let it fade away, but the sear lingers.  Cullen wakes beside her with a start, then falls back instantly into languidness as he often does.

“Good morning,” he says sleepily, the way he’s said a hundred different times.  Despite herself, she smiles.  His curls are rumpled, sticking every which way, and sleep crusts his eyes.  He yawns, inching closer so that their noses touch.  “Are you feeling better?” he asks, reaching out with a calloused hand to cup her face.  His voice suggests he does not expect her to answer yes.  He brushes some of her tangles back behind her ear.

“I’m not sure how I feel,” she says honestly.  “A little numb, perhaps.  Probably a whole host of other feelings underneath that.    It’s… weird.  I don’t know.”  Her left arm is tucked beneath her, and for a moment it’s as if she’s been sleeping on it, and that’s why she cannot feel it; she does not look down at it, not wanting to see the reminder.

“You don’t need to know right away,” says Cullen, kissing the tip of her nose.  “I only wanted to check.  To see if you wished to talk.”

“Maybe later,” she says.  She bolts upright.  “After the negotiations!”

Cullen swears.  She vaguely remembers telling someone yesterday they would go on as scheduled – she has delayed the wretched Winter Palace quite long enough, and she is eager to be done with the whole affair – but she’s irritated at herself for forgetting, even though she knows she has a good excuse.

Sure enough, there is a sharp but graceful knock at the door.  “Inquisitor?  Commander?  I am so sorry to be a bother, especially after – after yesterday.  But we must prepare your statement for the negotiations.”  Josephine’s voice trickles through the door, and Namira winces.

“Come on,” she says.  “Let’s get this over with.”  And she gets up, determined, Inquisitor, Namira Lavellan – she will see it _done_.

Yet she is small, and she is different than before, and what remains is stark and strange and smooth.

Namira sits on the edge of the bed, her formal wear laid out beside her where Cullen has placed it.  She can hear him hurriedly washing up in the basin in the small room off their chambers.  She is naked except for the towel laying over her lap, her right hand laying nerveless on the coverlet.

The mirror over the dresser is far too big.  Too much like an eluvian for comfort.  Worse, she can see herself, whereas in the bath she could simply ignore the arm as much as possible.

She stares hard at the stump.  It is alien to her, rounded the way a limb should never be, utterly foreign.  Except for the freckles dotting the skin of what still lingers; those she recognizes as her own, as well as the faint white scars from climbing trees when she was a girl.  

So this thing does belong to her, then.

Her hair dries slowly around her ears, water droplets running down in little rivulets onto her neck and back.  She knows the nobles wait for her and her decision.  She should be getting dressed.  

Namira clears her throat.  “Cullen?”

He emerges from the other room too quickly, toweling his hair, his uniform half-buckled.  He’s been waiting for her to ask for help, she knows that.  Yet – she doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Would you like a hand?” Cullen asks, then looks mortified.  “I – I only meant, would you care for some help –”

Namira laughs, despite herself.  “I did the same thing yesterday, with Varric and Cassandra.  There are… too many opportunities for hand-related puns.”  She smiles ruefully, looking down at her remaining hand.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s my job to worry about you,” he says softly.  “You are my wife, after all.”  He settles beside her on the bed, then reaches out, tracing the edge of her cheek with his fingertips.

“I do like the sound of that… my husband.”

A smile plays at the edge of his mouth.  “I don’t know how I ever became so lucky, Namira.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” she says.  “I’ve been having the most ridiculous bad luck, so it stands to reason someone else should be getting some of the good variety.”  She doesn’t mean the hint of bitterness to shine through so clearly, but it does, and she frowns at herself.

“Namira…”  There’s that worry in his eyes again, and she does not know what to do with it.  She hesitates, avoiding looking at him.

“Come on.  I’m fashionably late as it is,” she says hurriedly.  “Even the Orlesians will get annoyed if I’m any later.  Help me into this get-up, and let’s go mollify some nobles.”  

Cullen helps her into the formal uniform quickly enough, but they both wind up staring at the left sleeve, dangling long and empty at her side.  Cullen searches the dresser, coming up with a handful of pins.  He slides them into the sleeve, folding it neatly up beside her.  She does not know if she imagines the way he avoids directly touching the end of her arm, but if it is not her imagination, she does not blame him.


	5. Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine brings a breath of normalcy after the Inquisition's fate is decided.

Josephine finds Namira in the hallway after the hearing.  Namira has found a quiet alcove, an unassuming place to hide in that most people would walk past.  Especially here in Orlais, where an elf tucked into herself at the end of a hallway would be nearly invisible – as long as no one thought she was shirking her duties.   Of course, that would always be a threat here in Halamshiral.  But it is Josephine with her keen eye, and not a sniffing noble, who finds her immediately.  Namira finds herself grateful and embarrassed both. **  
**

“Inquisitor.   _Namira_ ,” Josephine whispers.  She kneels beside Namira, who sits slumped on the floor, her back against the wall.  She knows she’s being childish, sitting on the floor like this, but it’s comfortable down here away from the crenellated curlicues of  Orlesian furniture.  She settles further against the wall, the weight of her pressing down on the thick velvety carpet and leaving an indentation.  She wonders if it will stay there after she has gone, a little memory.   _Namira was here_.  How many more of those indentations are left throughout Thedas after these past few years?  Too many to count.  And yet, surely it was the same for Ameridan once, was it not?  She shivers.

“You did it.  It’s over.”

“The Inquisition is disbanded,” says Namira hollowly.  The words do not sound real.  She is still stunned by her decision, though it has been a long time coming; weeks, if not months, that she had started to wonder if the Inquisition had run its course.  But she is surprised at the depth of emotion welling up in her.

Josephine lays a hand on her shoulder, careful not to press too hard.  “It is a wise decision.  One that will lay to rest any claims of corruption.  And I know that you have never fallen towards corruption yourself.”  She looks steadily at Namira, taking in the whole of her; she does not flinch at what she sees, at least not in any perceptible way.  “How are you?” she asks, and Namira can tell she means it, not as Ambassador and Inquisitor, but as friends.

“I don’t know what to think, or feel,” Namira manages.  “My hand…   _Solas_ …  Everything we found when we traveled the eluvians.  I want to believe we can still fix this.  But right now…”  Her voice trails off, and she fights to keep tears back.  She has lost track of how often that has occurred recently.  Too often.

“None of us suspected Solas,” Josephine says briskly.  “You were not alone there; do not blame yourself.  Even Leliana and Cassandra never suspected….  We will do all we can to stop him.  You have my word.  The Inquisition may not exist any longer, but if you ever have need of me,  Inq– Namira, I will do everything in my power to aid you.”  She smiles, and it dazzles; a precious bit of warmth in a summer’s day that seems cold and gray and narrow despite the Winter Palace’s opulence.  

Silence settles between them, the sort of peculiar silence that is heavy between two people while not yet shutting out the sounds of life all around them: voices humming in the background, footsteps on plush carpeting, doors opening and closing.  Those sounds exist, far beyond them in this little hidden place, and between them there is a quiet that brings comfort.

“Does it hurt?” Josephine asks.  Her voice slides through the silence, but does not mar it.  Her words are too warm for that.

Namira huffs to herself, trying to shake herself free of her mood.  “Yes, and no.  It’s better than before.  Much, much better.”  She shudders, remembering the terror that had choked her, the fear that she would be devoured by the green Fade-light tearing at her flesh.  “Solas said no one could wield this type of power and survive.  I’m glad it’s gone.  But I don’t know what I’m going to do now, on the battlefield, I mean.  I think my staff will be too heavy to fight with.  And I keep trying to distract myself by thinking of stupid little things like how I’ll lace up my shirts instead of worrying about the really big things that are too scary.”  

“There will be time enough to figure that out,” Josephine soothes.  “Besides, I think perhaps your husband may wish to help you with some of those little things.”

“True,” Namira concedes.  “He’s good at that sort of thing.  One reason I married him.”  She sighs, rumpling her hair with her hand, trying to tuck it back behind her ears.  Several locks spring forth despite her efforts, and she gives up.  It doesn’t seem quite worth it right now to fight with another of her body parts, though she would take this type of battle any day over the one she fought yesterday.  

Josephine’s eyes sparkle.  There is a hint of pity in them, but it doesn’t make Namira feel broken; just recognized.  Josephine’s lips curl in a wicked smile.  “And you invited none of us to the wedding!” she teased, laughing.

Namira can’t keep the reflexive smile from her face.  “Spur of the moment, Josie.  I – I really don’t know what came over us.  He just sort of blurted it out!  I thought he was going to attempt something truly grand and ridiculous, but this was better.  For that matter, I was going to attempt something too, but he beat me to it, and here we are.”

“Oh?  And what might your plans have been?”  Josephine settles down to sit beside her, her legs folded to one side, leaning towards Namira to catch every word.

“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

It’s gossip, pure and simple, light and airy words spinning a semblance of normalcy that heartens her.  She has always so loved her conversations with Josephine, and after the pained start, they settle into their rhythms and patterns as if nothing has changed at all.  Even though everything has.

Namira holds their talk up as a shield against the thoughts that claw at the back of the mind.  The Inquisition is disbanding, the world shifting and changing yet again on the basis of her actions.  She has never asked for this; never wanted to be _Keeper_ , let alone _Inquisitor_ or the absurd _Herald_.  But now she is simply Namira once again, a woman talking to another woman about things that make them laugh, and for a moment, she forgets the ache of her hand in clouds of flowing words.  


	6. Demands and Requests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namira makes her way to that time-honored shemlen institution - the pub.

Namira visits the tavern after her talk with Josephine, restless and hungry for more words, more interaction.  It’s an  uncomfortable, prickling sensation, that hunger for her companions, but the alternative feels worse; she knows she does not want to be alone right now. **  
**

She feels as if she is snatching at the end of the Inquisition with her fingers, trying to grasp moments with her companions before the ties that bind them fray and loosen.  She knows the Inquisition will leave the Winter Palace only when she orders it, but she is still frightened of missing someone, something.  After everything, thinking she can make sure to see her friends gives her a bit of strength.  She does not want to miss a thing.

She senses rather than sees the eyes of the palace’s visitors and denizens on her, though she has foregone the scarlet Inquisition uniform for a drabber one in midnight blue and burnished gold.  

The hastily pinned sleeve on the left arm catches everyone’s attention, from the servant with the piercing black eyes and the dark, kinked hair to the masked ladies in finery tittering by the fountain.  Their heads shift as she passes, sometimes nearly imperceptibly, sometimes with open goggling from the few nobles’ children in the garden.  Now that the Qunari threat is over, they are back to taking the Palace for granted, as if nothing has changed.  Even though everything has.  Even though there has never been a greater threat before them.

She sees now what Sera had warned her of, the absence of other elves, the caged looks in the eyes of those who remain.  For the first time Namira worries that her own kind could become her enemy.  She had succored peace with the elves of the Temple of Mythal, and yet if Solas steals these people away from the obsequience and servitude of their lives here, can she convince them she can offer any better?  Or will they become her enemy?  She knows these elves are little like the Dalish she has left behind, but they are still her people, are they not?  Unless Solas –

_Enough_ , she tells herself firmly.  These are problems for another day, problems to plan for with people she can trust.  She did not carry everything alone as Inquisitor, and she is determined that she will not force herself to attempt it now.

She rounds the corner to the tavern, the smells of ale and wine and pipe smoke familiar to her now.  How long had it taken her to become accustomed to that unalterable and inalienable custom of the shemlen – the pub?  Now, after years visiting Sera, Krem, Bull, Cole, she thinks she is going to miss it.  

_You’re going to miss **them**_ , her brain reminds her.

Bull is seated at the end of the bar, nursing an enormous tankard.  The talk in the tavern falters for a breath’s length as everyone notes her, then hurriedly returns to their conversations.  The Iron Bull nods to her, patting the seat beside him and ordering her a drink.  She settles in, resting both arms on the bar at first, then wincing when the tender skin of the left protests her putting weight on it.  She leaves it there, refusing to let it win.

“So where to now, Bull?” Namira asks.  For a moment it feels like old times again, comfortable unwinding after the end of the day with friends.  “I imagine you and the Chargers’ll be able to find work pretty quickly.”

“Always do,” says Bull.  He takes a sip of his drink, mulling it thoughtfully before he swallows.  “Sorry I couldn’t get you any intel on the Viddasala.  It was frustrating as shit being blind out there.”

“I’m glad, though,” Namira says.  “If you’d still been with the Qunari, things might have gotten ugly.  I don’t want to think about it.  The Qun… it would have had a hold on you, wouldn’t it?  Even after everything?”  The words come from her too readily.  That is always the danger with the Iron Bull, she reflects.  His ease, his grin, everything about him so relaxed – and there she is, telling him what’s on her mind without a thought.  She’s simply grateful that Bull’s skills have been used for her side, and not for the Qun.

She lifts her tankard and takes a drink, grimacing.  “Bull, you have got to find something less awful to drink, one of these days.”

“It’s not worth my time if it’s not a challenge, Boss,” says Bull.  “But you’re right, of course.  If I wasn’t Tal-Vashoth, demands of the Qun would have… demanded.  And if the Viddasala had asked, I would have followed.  If the Qun says you go, you go, but I’ve seen enough of your crazy lightning magic to be damn glad I didn’t have to try and take you out.”  He gazes at his drink.  “Yeah, glad it didn’t go down that way, in the end.”

“Me too.”  She smiles a little.  “I’m quite fond of you, you know.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, boss.”  But he smiles too, clinks his tankard against hers.  

Bull is quiet for a moment, watching her take another bitter drink.  “You gonna be okay?  With everything?”

“Yes,” she says firmly.  Then, “No.”  Then, “I don’t know.”  They all seem to be correct in different ways.

“That’s what I thought.  You’ll get there eventually though.”  He taps his braced foot against the barstool, then gestures toward his eyepatch.  “Missing a few pieces myself. I can tell you, it sneaks up on you sometimes.  But things start to get normal after a while.  Different than before, but you figure it out, mostly.  Takes time.”  He claps an enormous hand to her shoulder.  “Just remember that.   _It takes time_.”

Namira doesn’t answer, afraid the stinging in her eyes might progress to something more.  Instead she drinks again, the burn of alcohol strangely comforting.  

“Namiraly!” Sera says, coming up beside them.  She takes the stool next to Namira, spinning on it before coming to a stop.  She looks hard at Namira’s left arm.  “It looks weird,” she says, frowning hard enough to wrinkle her forehead.  “Does it hurt?”

Namira winces.   _Yes, it’s weird_ , she thinks, _weirder than you can imagine._  “No,” she says.  “Not anymore.  It was worse when I still had the mark.”

“Well, it’s still shite,” she says fiercely.  Her face softens for a moment.  “Glad you didn’t snuff it, yeah?  It was never fair.  But you not making it – that would’ve been worse than unfair.”  

“Thanks, Sera,” says Namira.  She reaches out for a second as if to give Sera a hug, then stops, embarrassed by her stump.  She tucks it against herself again, but Sera realizes what she had meant to do and claps her in a hard, jerky embrace.  Namira gives her a watery smile as she pulls away.  

“Hope you don’t mind,” says Sera.  “I’ve just been in your quarters, messing with all your stuff.  Cully-wully said I could.”

“Huh?  He did, did he?” Namira asks, narrowing her eyes, shaking aside her emotion.  “And what, might I ask, were you doing?”

“Something interesting, I’d bet,” says Bull.  “Chalked tits all over the ceiling?”

“Shut it, Bull,” says Sera affectionately.  “Not this time.  If you’re going to be a Jenny, you can’t have extra shit getting in your way.  Me and my people, we sneak a bit.  So I fixed your stuff.”

“What do you mean?”

Sera rolls her eyes in exasperation.  “Your shirts!  I did the sleeves.  That way you don’t get pins poking you all over.  Last thing you need is metal bits stabbing you.  Probably seen enough of that by now.  So I fixed your sleeves.  Added a little extra on a few of them, too.”  She leans in, face suddenly slipping into something serious.  “You ever need to sit on the roof, and just, you know, talk… you tell me.  Even if it’s a different roof, different place, what with the Inquisition closing shop.  We’ll find a roof somewhere.   If you need it.”

Namira nods, half-worried as to what Sera might have sewed on her sleeves, half-excited to find out.  “You know I’ll be there,” she says.  She considers for a moment.  “There is something, um, that I would like.”  She stumbles on the words.  “You mentioned my clan…”

Sera’s blue eyes are uncharacteristically serious, half-lidded in thought.  “I did.  I’ll pass it along.  Inquisitor – _ex_ -Inquisitor – needs to know.  We’ll sort it, see if we can find something.”  

Namira takes another drink.  “It would mean a lot,” she whispers, half into her tankard, and she scrubs at her face with the back of her right hand.  There are too many things to feel right now – comfort with Sera and Bull beside her; dizziness from the strong brew; exhaustion after the court proceedings; and keenest of all,  a fierce lonely missing of her hand, her clan, her friends before they are even gone.

Too many things to feel right now, and she feels all of them.


	7. Paces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen gets to know his new dog.

Cullen’s steps are careful through the sprawling gardens of the Winter Palace, the Mabari tagging at his heels in stark contrast.  Cullen knows what he looks like right now; ramrod straight, arms tucked tight behind his back, pacing strides.   _Commander._  A title he will shed, just as his wife will leave behind Inquisitor.  But beside him is the dog, gamboling in the bushes here and there, tongue lolling, steadily panting as he keeps pace with Cullen and still finds time to frisk from side to side. **  
**

“I’ll have to find a name for you yet,” Cullen says to the dog out of the corner of his mouth.  The dog tilts his head to one side, regarding Cullen with great consideration, then lets out a hardy bark.   _What do you name a dog?_ he wonders.  It is nice to have a small problem to take up his thoughts, instead of the larger ones.  He will have to come up with something properly befitting the dog’s perked ears, his clever dark eyes, his patchwork coat.  Yes, it is nice to think for a moment on the smaller problems.

_“Marry me,” the words tumbling out of him, both their smiles so wide, so real, and yet there was that way her eyes tightened after , the shift of her gaze down to the Anchor, and he had tried to shove away the thought that theirs was borrowed time –_

_Her face, so drawn and pale, pain in every line of her, reaching for him with both arms, but the left was **gone** –_

_She seemed so small, sobbing into his chest; his own fear still choked him despite the fact he held her as close as he could, Maker, he had thought he’d lost her –_

_Solas, betrayer, the elves’ Dread Wolf, the spark that set Corypheus’ plans ablaze; she spoke of him with both fear and awe, and yet she wanted to **save** him after everything – how could she want to try –_

The dog nudges his hand.  Cullen pauses beside a wide oak, crouches beneath its shade to scratch the dog beneath his chin.  “You’re right,” says Cullen reproachfully.  He speaks in a soft voice, quietly enough that passersby will not hear him.  “I ought not to wrinkle my forehead so when I worry.  Namira disapproves.”  The dog darts forward and licks his face, one long slobbery curl of the tongue across Cullen’s nose and lips.  He sputters, then laughs despite himself.  “Yes, I see your point.”

“You are talking to the dog?” asks a stern but curious voice, and Cullen glances up to see Cassandra shading him.  “Telling it your deepest secrets, no doubt.”

Cullen straightens up hastily, wiping his face on the back of his leather glove.  Dog saliva glistens on it, and he grimaces.  Namira gave him these gloves – supple halla leather trimmed in halla fur, a great honor.  Halla leather was reserved for the finest garments and tools; it was too precious, too great a gift, for everyday use.  He wears them with his Inquisition uniform, a way to be close to Namira when he could not be with her in the hearing, and he frowns now, feeling a prickle of shame.  If the dog could ruin these –!  Hurriedly he scrubs the back of his glove against the uniform, and is relieved to see the saliva fade, leaving no lasting mark.  

“We were having a fine conversation, I’ll have you know,” says Cullen.  “Discussing many important things.   _Fereldan_ things.”

“Ah,” says Cassandra, lifting her hands up.  “I would not wish to interrupt this discussion between countrymen.  I can take my leave.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Cullen laughs.  “Walk with us.  I feel restless in this overwrought palace, and so does the dog.”

“He is a fine creature,” she says, casting a critical eye over him as they begin to walk through the gardens, Cassandra’s pace a faster clip than Cullen’s.  He keeps up with her easily, though there is a part of him that wishes he could stroll less swiftly, with Namira at his side.   “Dogs have never been as popular in Nevarra as in Ferelden, of course, but some of my family kept them.  He looks as if he would be quite keen in battle.”  A smile quirks on her face.  “My grandmother had a white fluffy dog, less than a quarter this dog’s size.  It sat on her lap and she fed it bits of meat all day long.  It was quite a charming fellow.  I do not blame her.”

“No dog of mine would beg food from the table,” Cullen begins, but the dog nudges his large head, hard, against Cullen’s leg.  “You know, I do believe he disagrees.”  He privately swears to never let the dog have so much of a scrap of bread from the table, lest the beast start getting… ideas.

“No one ever said Mabari were fools,” Cassandra sniffs.  “Even a Nevarran knows as much.”  She cautiously pets the dog behind the ears; he lets out a pleasurable rumble.  “How are you doing, Cullen?”

“As well as to be expected,” he says cautiously.  He should have expected this.  Cassandra has kept close watch on him before, her concern bound up with duty and friendship.  He remembers lyrium headaches, staggering back to his quarters while leaning against her more than once.  It lays him low far less often than it used to, but there are new worries to catch at him.

Cassandra nods.  “How is Namira?”

“Fragile,” Cullen says, speaking more to the dog than to Cassandra.  It is easier this way.  “Sometimes her mood is strangely cheerful, all things considered.  Then a few moments later she’s near tears.  I’ve seen wounded templars react much the same; everything is fine, until it isn’t.”  He remembers shadows of Kinloch Hold in the barracks at night, haunting him; he does not speak of it aloud.

“Grief is a strange thing,” Cassandra says.  “And it is a kind of grief, I think.”  She looks pensive, lips pursed tight, arms crossing.  “Do you think she would be disturbed if…”  She hesitates.  “If I were to pray for her?”

Cullen scratches the dog’s chin, and dog hair begins to coat his glove, springing forth as it had grown there.  “She has never asked me to stop.  She takes them as they are meant, I think; a sign that I care for her,” Cullen says quietly.   He smiles slightly.  “Still I think she understands my meaning, whether I say _Andraste_ or _Sylaise_ or name no one at all.”  His smile widens, thinking of her vows.   _Sylaise en… enaste var aravel_?  He thinks he has it right.  He will ask her again tonight, if she does not mind saying it once more.  He thinks he will never mind hearing it.

“She never did take to being called the Herald of Andraste,” Cassandra acknowledges.  She sighs.  “You must be there for her, Cullen.  She has a difficult road ahead of her.”

“I know it,” he says, and this time he does not speak to the dog.  “And I will do everything in my power to help her.”

“But if you ever need help yourself, Cullen,” Cassandra says, “do not forget you both have friends.”  She grips his shoulder, and Cullen inclines his head slightly forward in thanks.  

_Everything in my power,_ he thinks, and he means it fiercely.


End file.
